


History Through Art and Propaganda (Or; The One Where They Do It In Professor Rogers' Office)

by sumomomochi



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, excessive mentions of tupperwear for porn, professor steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You knew he'd be probably the youngest teacher you'd have. You were expecting the short stature and the ugly sweater and the friendly smile as he introduced himself. You were not expecting the scuffed up Docs or the full lips or the Frodo fucking blue eyes or the most gorgeous hands you've ever seen on a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Through Art and Propaganda (Or; The One Where They Do It In Professor Rogers' Office)

You're not much for US history but you have to take something and a class discussing art and propaganda sounds much better than anything else you have to chose from. Plus the professor is one Mister Rogers so even if the class is boring, you're sure your never ending amusement at being lectured by _Mister fucking Rogers_ will be enough to carry you through the semester.

The rumour mill is constantly at work so you knew he'd be probably the youngest teacher you'd have. You were expecting the short stature and the ugly sweater and the friendly smile as he introduced himself. You were not expecting the scuffed up Docs or the full lips or the Frodo fucking blue eyes or the most gorgeous hands you've ever seen on a man.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and rapidly text Natasha.

› oh no  
› oh no hes hot  
› why did no one tell me

And then there's a hand wiggling slender paint stained fingers under your nose and that warm baritone voice is directed at you when he says, "Phone, please."

You look up. He's still smiling, wry and a little crooked, and for being such a tiny slip of a man in an honest to god bow tie, you can tell he's not gonna budge an inch unless you do as he says. You try not to flush guiltily as you lock the screen and place your phone in his waiting palm. His fingers are cool against yours. The way he beams at your cooperation is incredibly smug.

"Thank you," he says, slipping your phone into the front pocket of his jeans. You have to swallow hard and focus on his words and not his slender thighs as he continues, "As I was saying, I don't mind if you doodle or knit or whatever you have to do to pay attention, but if I'm talking, you're not, and that includes texting, as our friend here has already demonstrated."

Fuck. This was a terrible idea. You would have been better off taking any other class, no matter how boring, because at least then you wouldn't be distracted by how much you want to bone your teacher.

Halfway through him outlining the semester, he sucks in a sharp, surprised breath before shooting you a dirty look as he pulls your phone back out.

"You've got a text from, oh 'Black Widow', scary," he drawls, lazy and sarcastic, "'At least you've got something nice to look at Bucky-bear'. I'm flattered you think so highly of my class."

There's a smattering of laughter and he winks at you, amused. You think if you flushed any darker your head would explode.

By the end of the class, your phone is sitting neatly at the corner of your desk, saving you from the humiliation of asking for it back. You don't think you'll ever manage to look him in the eye thanks to Natasha, even if he doesn't know the context of her message, and you have every intention of bitching her out the moment you step out of the room. You shove your phone into your pocket and make a beeline to the door the instant he dismisses you.

You're halfway there when he practically sings, "Remember, no more texting in my class, Bucky-bear."

You're going to fucking kill Natasha.

She placates you by buying you dinner and beer and nodding sympathetically as you bitch.

"You would think," you say with a grand gesture, "him being a total jackass would be a turn off but _no_. It makes him so much hotter. He's so tiny and adorable and _vicious_."

You drop your head onto the table and sigh. Tasha pats your hair affectionately.

"Gonna pop a boner every time I have that class," you grumble.

"At least you'll have an excuse for why you fail."

"Mm, yeah. And then I can take his class again."

Tasha cackles and orders you another drink.

It's way later than is wise for your morning class when you finally make it home, arm slung around Natasha from you walk back to your apartment. She smooches your cheek before detangling herself, grinning, "Tomorrow morning is gonna be so fun for you ."

You groan, "Don't remind me."

You empty your pockets out onto the coffee table so you'll be able to find your phone and keys come morning, and find a crumpled sticky note.

_Thanks for putting up with me using you to set an example_

_\- Steve :)_

It's fucking dumb how big of a crush you've got on him already.

The next morning, you're hung over and exhausted. Rogers' class is your first of the morning. You set your phone to silent and pointedly leave it on the corner of your table and your hangover is made up for by the smile the blond shoots you. The minute hand on the clock ticks forward to start the hour and he immediately launches into his lecture.

It's a primer on art history to provide context for later discussions, which you appreciate, and he talks just as much with his hands as he does with his mouth. It's easy to see how much he loves what he's teaching. He positively glows as he paces the front of the room, going through a rapid fire, quick and dirty overview of a completely different subject.

You're barely able to follow along and despite how you joked with Tasha about retaking his class, you don't actually want to fail. You hang back after he's done and when the room is otherwise empty, you tell him point blank, "I have absolutely no clue about anything you talked about."

His eyebrows raise over the frames of his glasses briefly. He's even more attractive up close and so tiny; he's barely eye level with your collar.

"History major, right?" he asks. You must look dumbstruck because he laughs and adds, "I got a pretty specific subject here, Bucky-bear. You're either here for the art or you're here for the history. Not that difficult to guess."

You recover and give him your most charming smile; "Can't blame me for being distracted, you're awful pretty."

"Sure helps keep attendance up when you teach /such/ a boring class," he teases, grinning. "A comprehensive background in art isn't really necessary since we'll be discussing how the art reflects and relates to when it was created instead of like, composition and stuff, but there is a lot of visual shorthand that might not be as obvious if you don't know what you're looking for. I could write down a couple of book for you if you're up to doing some extra reading."

The abrupt shift from banter to professional advice takes you a bit by surprise but you take him up on his offer. He writes down half a dozen titles on a sticky note. When he hands it to you, he says, "Might also be a good idea for you to not come in hung over either, hm?"

You snap a sharp salute and drawl, "Yessir."

As you a step away, you catch his brilliantly blue eyes flick down your frame appreciatively. This semester is going to be one long cock block but at least you think you're not going to be the only one in the equation that's distracted.

That's more or less how his lectures go. It's not an easy class but it's an interesting class and Steve is an incredible teacher. His brains rival his good looks and every couple of classes for weeks, you figure out some excuse to talk to him one on one. He always humours you, happy to elaborate for any question you have and even occasionally flirting back with equal measures of sarcasm and sincerity.

"You know," he tells you with a smirk one day, "I do have an office we could go to."

You're real glad you're the only one who sticks around because the way you gape at him like a fish has him laughing his ass off. You almost turn tail and run because you swear to God Mister fucking Rogers just propositioned you but he laughs himself into a coughing fit that has him scrambling for his desk. You're half hard and he's flushed and sweaty and gasping for air and you hover because you're _worried_ , that's all.

The way his lips wrap around the plastic of his inhaler is seared into your mind and you'll probably never jerk off to the thought of anything else ever again.

"Seriously though," he rasps once he gets his breath back, "I'm happy to help however you need. That's what my office is _for_."

You can't tell if doing this on purpose or not, so you just nod stiffly, not trusting your voice.

After that, you swear the next time you have a burning desire to talk to him, you'll take advantage of his office hours instead. At least then you'll be sitting behind a desk to better hide your inevitable erection.

You hold out a whole two weeks before you knock on his office door and he calls out for you to come in. His office might literally be a closet with haphazard stacks of books and papers covering ninety percent of the flat surfaces. The door gets stuck before it's fully open and you have to squeeze between it and the filing cabinet right by the doorjamb. It doesn't go so well. You bump into literally everything you possibly can and kick off a cascade of papers pouring to the floor.

You bite off the start of a curse and apologize, bending down to pick things up and that just makes it _worse_. You back your ass up against the filing cabinet and there's a worrying scrape of metal against plaster and then _it's_ tipping over. You scramble to catch it.

Steve laughs his ass off, again having to search out his inhaler to catch his breath. This time it's in the pocket of his jeans so he has to lean back in his chair to get it, arching his hips up to fit his hand into his pocket. You swallow thickly and look for someplace to sit before he notices your hard on. There is another chair in the room, but it's got a pile of things on it too -- his bag, yet another stack of books with a green helmet balanced on top, a leather jacket draped over the arm. You're left standing awkwardly with drifts of papers up to your ankles and you're terrified to do so much as breathe lest you knock the fucking filing cabinet over again.

"So what can I do for you today, Barnes," Steve asks, laughter colouring his voice like you didn't just almost destroy his office.

"I'm usually much smoother than this, I swear," you tell him, wide eyed.

"Is that you asking me out?"

You stare at him, dumbfounded, and he goes right back to laughing his ass off.

"'Cause if you are," he continues a little breathlessly, "I'm afraid you'll have to wait awhile for your answer. I don't date students. Mine, at least." He winks and then launches straight into, "So what questions did you have for me today?"

The next several lectures of his have you squirming uncomfortably in your seat. You swear, every time he makes eye contact with you it carries the promise of fucking your brains out. You can't even be sure he's looking at you the way you think he is; he's infuriatingly flippant in his flirting. Either way, it takes you another week and a half to make your way back to his office after that first disastrous visit -- either he actually wants to fuck you or he doesn't, but you do actually have a serious question to ask him this time.

His office is neater than it was before so even though you do still have to squeeze your way in, you don't knock anything over. His other chair is even mostly clear, with just the brown leather jacket draped over the back of it. You take a seat immediately, grateful, because you swear to god you have a perpetual chub going on any time you're around him and the last thing you need is to be distracted.

Your question spawns a whole new lecture from him that culminates with your chairs tucked together, knees bumping as you sit side by side to pour over the pages of a book he plucked out to show you examples of what he was talking about. It's fucking incredible.

After that, you stop by his office once or twice a week and it takes less and less time for you to steer him onto subjects other than the one he teaches.

Roughly two thirds through the semester, he casually swipes your phone off the corner of your desk where you still keep it. He doesn't miss a beat in his lecture even as his eyebrows raise in surprise. You're sure it's because of your lock screen -- you'd changed it after he spent twenty minutes talking about his favourite painting one of the last times you visited his office and Natasha had laughed for days when you admitted to why you’ve suddenly changed your background.

Your phone is back where you left it by the end of his class and when you open it, you find it's been left on a text convo screen to _Steve_ where you have, apparently, sent him a wink emote. You don't mention it as the two of you walk towards his office together, as has become routine, and neither does he. When you get home, you find he even set his display picture as a screencap from Mister Rogers' fucking Neighborhood.

› i cant believe you used a picture of mr rogers as your picture in my phone  
‹ I couldn't exactly stop to take a selfie. I was teaching a class, you know ;)

This man is going to be the death of you.

Especially when he strips off one of his trademark sweaters a couple weeks later, revealing the facts that he is thinner than you thought and that he wears suspenders to keep his pants up instead of a belt. Even worse, he rolls up the sleeves of his button up too. You're too distracted by the bold ink filling the insides of both his forearms to notice his clammy flush until it's too late.

You're with him when he goes down, thank god. One minute he's tucking the papers he collected today into his bag and the next he fucking _crumples_ , knees buckling out from under him. You manage to catch him before his head bounces off the floor, but only just.

He's breathing well enough and his pulse is a little too fast but there, but the fucker went and _fainted_ on you and his skin feels like he's on fire. You don't get a whole lot of time to freak out, thankfully. He blinks back awake with his cheek mashed against your bicep and turns his head just enough to give you a dopey grin as he wheezes, "My hero."

You'd dump his dumb, sassy ass onto the ground for that but he's warm and boney and he weighs next to nothing in your arms, and now that he's regained consciousness he's clutching the front of your shirt as he regains his balance. You can't decide whether you'd rather kiss him silly or smack him upside the head.

He makes that decision for you when he squirms out of your grasp, grumbling, "'M fine," even as he falls back on his ass.

"You're _not_ fine, you dumbass," you tell him with a deep frown, "you fainted and you've got a fever."

He's giving you another one of those looks that tell you he's not gonna budge so you might as well compromise. His thick brows pull together in a scowl and he says, "I'll _be_ fine."

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back at you, jaw set stubbornly.

"Fine," you snap, "let me at least walk you to your car. You're going home."

"Fine."

He's a little wobbly when he stands but he strides off with a purpose. You follow him as he picks up his things from his office and then out to the parking lot...

Where he straddles a fucking Harley.

You drag him off the back of the bike with an, "Oh fuck no."

"You're the one who wants me to go home," he bites as he squirms out of your arms again.

"Not on that thing, you'll fucking kill yourself."

He fixes you with a flatly disapproving frown; "And an actual car would be different, huh?" 

"I could drive you home in an actual car."

Steve looks taken aback by that. He asks sharply, "And how would you have gotten home?"

"Woulda walked."

There's a long moment where the two of you just stare crossly at each other, both too stubborn, before you add, "Which is what we're doin' instead."

He squawks indignantly when you scoop him up in a fireman's hold and start walking. He thumps the flat of his hand against your back in time with his demands to be put down. You don't. 

You don't even reach the other end of the parking lot before he groans your name and _then_ you put him on his feet. He sways dangerously, one hand clutching your arm, the other his glasses. He looks distinctly worse for wear and that has you apologizing with your hands on his elbows to keep him balanced.

"My place is only couple blocks away," you tell him softly, "I could give you a piggy back if you, you know, want."

"I'm _fine_ ," he bites out again, squirming from your grasp, "Jesus, Buck, quit tryin' to treat me like a kid."

"Can't help bein' the older brother," you tell him with a roguish grin at the face he makes. "Been wrangling stubborn shits most my life."

The face he's made is a mix of surly and insulted with just a touch of grossed out, but that may just be from him being so green around the gills. He's almost whiney when he says, "I've got a good five years on you."

"And I've got a good five _inches_ on you, so we can do this the easy way or the hard way but either way you're gonna eat and then take a fucking nap."

Steve looks like he's going to argue even though he's leaned against the building behind him and still looking like he's about to keel over. He's glaring daggers at you, jaw set stubbornly, but he just shoves his glasses back on his face and says, "Fine, jerk. Lead on."

You've never been so glad to live so close to campus. Steve's breathing becomes increasingly laboured and he keeps as close to the buildings you pass as possible, bracing himself with a palm against brick every couple of steps. You're sure he'll punch you if you dare think of offering him any more help. He's such a dumb, stubborn asshole and it's endearing as fuck.

There's an elevator in your building and even though you only live on the second floor, you hit the call button for it. Steve's pale and breathing in wet gasps; there's no way he could make it up the stairs. You think maybe the elevator wasn't such a great idea either, judging from the twist of his lips and the tiny distressed noise he makes when the elevator lurches up.

"Please don't puke the elevator."

"If I puke, 'm gonna aim for you," he breathes and then you're ushering him out and down the hall.

You get the door to your apartment open and tell him, “Bathroom’s the middle door there, if you do, actually, you know,” you shrug awkwardly, “Make yourself at home?”

You did not think this through.

Steve perches gingerly on the edge of the couch with a look of vague distaste. You’re sure it’s not because your apartment is messy or anything -- you’re far too used to the perpetually well lived in look to be anywhere near anal about picking up after yourself thanks to your family, but Tasha’s very good at leaving no trace when she goes through a room unless she wants too. At the very least, your apartment with it’s mismatched furniture and truly ugly couch upholstery has nothing on the barely controlled chaos of his office.

You putter around the kitchen instead of fussing over him or trying to self consciously clean whatever bit of mess you can find. It doesn’t take much time for you to throw together some soup for Steve, with eggs and chicken sausage and some god damned vegetables. You’re halfway done before you realize, you have no idea if he can actually eat this.

Steve’s sitting at the breakfast bar instead of the couch when you turn back to ask him, “You’re not allergic to anything are you?’

He snorts, “I’ve got a list of allergies longer than my arm. No food though.”

“Cool,” you say, licking your lips as you turn back to the stove, “One of my sisters’ allergic to gluten and another’s deathly allergic to nuts and fish and Tash’s not actually lactose intolerant but she’s completely grossed out by milk so.”

There’s a click of plastic against the countertop. When you look back, Steve’s resting his chin in his palm, glasses on the counter in front of him. Without the frames on his face, he looks older, tired. He catches you looking and gives you a half smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Thanks,” he says, sounding like he’s having to pull teeth to get the word out.

“You’re not very good at letting people take care of you, huh?”

Another snort; “What gave you that idea?”

“You’re a real asshole, you know.”

“Says the guy who pretty much kidnapped me to feed me soup of all things.”

You grin and give him a mocking half bow. “I’m afraid we’re fresh out of filet mignon, sorry.”

“Jerk,” he snaps back, but he’s really smiling now.

“Punk.”

“Punk? Not very respectful of your elders, are you?”

You stick your tongue out at him in reply, which has him laughing uproariously but his laughter quickly dissolves into gasps and you just about shit yourself scrambling to his bag. You’ve seen him dig out his inhaler often enough to know where he usually keeps it. He touches the tips of his fingers briefly to his chin before he takes it from you.

“Gotta stop doing that,” he wheezes when he catches his breath.

"Can't help my charisma," you quip back. This time when he smiles, it lights up the room.

You’re fucked.

He ends up half draped over the bar, elbows keeping his torso up, shoulders up to his ears, fingers laced together on the countertop with his forehead pressed against them. His breathing comes in wet rattles that cannot be helped by the way he’s curled in on himself. You pull a bowl out of the dish drainer and ask, “You okay?”

“Fine,” he immediately says, then pauses before he grumbles, “Dizzy.”

You spoon soup into the bowl and walk past him to set it on the coffee table, staring pointedly between him and the couch. Even his heavy sigh is raspy as he stands and totters over. He drops onto the couch heavily, sprawled out to take up damn near half of it. While his pants aren’t really tight, they’re not exactly loose either, and with the way his legs are spread, your eyes can’t help but zero in on his crotch.

You drag your eyes away through sheer force of will, chewing on your lip as you step into your room to grab your blankets off your bed.

You are so fucking thankful the couch faces away from your bedroom door when Steve takes his first bite of your soup and moans like a porn star. You just barely stifle your own whimper. What did you do to deserve such dorture, you’ll never know.

Steve has slid down to sit cross legged on the floor between the couch and coffee table to eat. That does a lot to temper your hard on. He looks younger, slouched over his bowl to blow on his spoon. Not like a kid, but not like he’s your professor either.

“This is so fucking good,’ he tells you, slurping more off his spoon and again sounding like something out of a porno.

You sit on the couch to his side and try not to look like you aren’t totally going to jerk off to the way he sounds eating fucking soup and say, “Thanks.”

(He’s so noisy though. Your momma would slap you upside the head if she heard you eating like he is, but the noises translate to the sound of sex so easy in your head. You’d bet anything he’d slurp just as wetly against your cock and _that_ is a completely inappropriate thought to be having. He’s _sick_. He’s your _teacher_. he’s flushed and a little sweaty from his fever, lips pursed and eyes half lidded as he blows on the soup to cool it down.

You wonder if you could get him into your bed.

Just to nap. Possibly in his underwear, since he’s obviously too warm.

You’re going to hell.)

His eyebrows twitch up when he looks over at you, glasses fogged up and slid down his nose, but he just asks conversationally, “How’d you learn to cook so good?”

“I’m one of six kids so I’ve been helping my ma for years,” you tell him, thankful for something to come out of his mouth that isn’t moaning.

He gapes at you for a moment before he goes, “Really? That’s really cool,” with his dazzling grin back in place.

 

You ask, “What about you?”

“Cooking skills or siblings?”

“Both?”

“Neither,” he laughs.

“No wonder you’re so skinny,” you tease, “Big families make big meals.”

He sticks his tongue out at you and you laugh.

He sucks more soup off his spoon thoughtfully, then he asks, “What’s it like? Having a big family?’

“Noisy,” you tell him immediately, grinning, “I’m the second oldest so I’m the favourite and all I’ve got is sisters, so I’m doubly the favourite. Or the worst child, depending on what I’ve done recently.” The wink you throw him makes him snort, which makes him cough, but he grins through it anyway.

“Sounds fun,” He rasps after a pause.

“It has it’s moments,” you reply, “Being an only child not all it’s cracked up to be?”

 

He smiles, “It has it’s moments,” then he shrugs, “It’s boring mostly. Quiet too.”

“Just you and your parents?”

“Just me a lot of the time. My dad died when I was little and my mom was a nurse.” He shrugs again.

Oh.

“No wonder you can’t cook either,” you tease.

 

“Rub it in, why don’t you?”

“How do you even survive?”

“I’m very proficient in the use of microwaves, thanks.”

You bust up laughing.

“Man,” you muse, “I can’t imagine it being just me and my ma. How would holidays even work?”

“Hospital cafeterias and opening gifts in the weird hours between shifts,” he tells you with a grin, matter of fact.

“Thought you said your ma was a nurse, past tense?”

“She was. She died a couple of years ago.”

OH.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” and Steve shrugs yet again, like he really isn’t bothered. 

Way to be a fucking downer Barnes. You change the subject -- “How’s the soup?”

“Fucking incredible,” he grins, “Or have you been missing the sounds I’ve been making?”

Fucking tease. What an asshole. The reply still makes you laugh, “Why, Mister Rogers, one might think you’re flirting with me.”

“Maybe I am,” and the fucker has the audacity to wink at you. You make a truly unattractive sound, sputtering with laughter. He grins back at you, wry.

“Thought you said no relations with students.”

He shrugs, still grinning, “Kinda botched that when I let you kidnap me for soup and naps.”

“‘Let me’ huh?”

“Yes, let you,” he puts on his serious teacher face, “I like you, I do, but absolutely nothing gets to happen until until you’re not my student anymore. Nothing sexual at least.”

You flick him a lazy mock salute; “Yessir.”

“We’re just friends.”

“For now.”

He smirks, “Yeah, for now.”

“Quit flirting and eat your dang soup,”

Steve rolls his eyes but listens, even going so far as to not make porn star noises as he does so. After a bit, you turn on the TV, starting one of the various documentaries saved to your instant queue. The two of you watch in relative silence for the first third of it. When you sit down again after refilling his bowl, he pipes up again with the sarcasm.

“Thought you were east european history.”

“Yeah, but who can resist the History Channel's awful Nazi documentaries? Besides, Hitler did invade Russia.”

“Tried to.”

“Definitely tried,” you put on a thick Slavic accent, “In Russia, winter like mother’s milk. Makes you strong. German winters -- pah!- weak like baby.”

“You’re a fucking nerd.”

“Yes, you’ve uncovered my secret. Me, the history major, a nerd.” You mime shoving glasses up your nose and ask, “Want to see my comic book collection?”

He rolls his eyes and mimics you, actually pushing his glasses up his nose, and asks, “Do you actually have a comic collection?”

You wiggle your eyebrows then laugh when his serious expression fails to waiver.

“I do, yeah,” you promise, “Unfortunately most of it is at my parent’s house.”

“What do you collect?”

 

“What I read mostly. Lots of superheroes, some mutants. Scifi stuff. My real collection is of 40’s pulp novels and serials. I have some original printings of Lovecraft.”

 

“You really are a huge nerd,” he crows, laughing. He sounds delighted.

“Like I’m the only one here. I’ve been in your office. It’s an art nerd paradise.”

“What can I say, it’s my specialty. I do kind of teach a class on the subject.” He raises his eyebrows like he’s trying to be innocent as he gestures to your phone and teases, “I notice you’ve taken some of my private lessons to heart.”

You shrug, “Maybe I like art.”

“Maybe you like me.”

You shoot him a dirty look. He shrugs and smiles serenely.

“Just because we cant do anything yet doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it,” he tells you simply.

You frown at him and tell him flat out, “I spend half the time I’m around you with a boner. Pretty sure that means I like you.”

He looks dumbfounded for about two seconds before he flushes and licks his lips, dropping his gaze. His blush crawls all the way down his neck as he stares very intently at the TV. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and you can tell he’s trying very hard to keep his breathing even.

“Is this the one with the aliens?” he asks.

NIce change of subject. You roll with it since you really weren’t kidding about the ration of time you spend hard versus not hard while around him.

“Its from the last year or so, so yeah, probably.”

Conversation peters out again and by the time this documentary is over, Steve’s climbed back onto the couch with you. He takes up far more room that he should given his size, but this time it’s partly because he’s buried himself in your comforter. You follow Netflix’s breadcrumb trail of suggestion, this time a documentary actually on aliens, and try hard not to stare at Steve.

He passes out halfway into the show and snores (tiny, raspy kitten snores with his mouth half open) through three episodes of the cartoon you put on after that. You’re free to watch him like that. You find the way he’s dozed off sitting up with his chin against his chest to be way too fucking cute.

Natasha’s keys slide into the lock and you pull your gaze away from Steve’s sleeping form just in time for him to startle awake when she opens the door.

“Honey, I’m home,” Tasha calls from the short hall to the front door, keys clicking against the wall as she hangs them up. Steve wheezes a laugh and Tasha gives you A Look whens he rounds the corner.

**”You’re going to get yourself into so much trouble,”** she tells you flatly.

**”Hardly. He threatened to puke on me.”**

She snorts, **”Didn’t know you were into that.”**

“Fucking gross, no!” you throw one of the couch pillows at her (which she catches deftly), “Bad. _Gross_.”

“Do I even want to know,” Steve asks. When you look back at him, he’s scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand, looking thoroughly unamused. Natasha just shrugs and walks away to her room.

You grumble, “I have the grossest friends.” Steve continues to level you with an unamused stare, making you grimace and explain, “I told her you threatened to puke on me. She made it into a sex thing.”

“In.. Russian?”

“Yeah.”

“She an east European history major too?”

You can hear Natasha scoff from behind her door when you tell him, “Naw, she’s just Russian.”

**”Just russian? You ass.”**

“Excuse me, she’s the epitome of the Russian soul.”

“Better,” Tasha calls out while Steve snickers. She emerges from her room in yoga pants and a tshirt you gave up trying to find again a while ago. Steve looks vaguely uncomfortable, detangling himself from your blanket when she perches next to you on the arm of the couch.

“I should probably go,” he says, shoving his feet into his boots.

“Nonsense,” Natasha replies before you can even open your mouth, “I’ve heard so much about you; I’d like to see if it’s all true.”

He gives her a polite, professional smile; “And that’s why I should go.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at you. **”I thought you said you haven’t done anything.”**

**”We haven’t.”**

**”Sure. I believe you.”** She obviously doesn’t. You just roll your eyes and stand as well.

“I’ll walk you out,” you tell Steve. The look he gives you says loud and clear that he can find the door on his own, but he graciously lets you lead the way anyway.

“Must be nice being able to have secret conversations right in front of people,” Steve says as soon as you close your front door.

“Yeah,” you agree airily, “It comes in handy. You feeling better.”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. You give him your best older brother not-taking-any-shit frown and he concedes, “ _Yes_. The food helped. I’ll be fine, it’s not like I’ve never been sick before.”

He’s half glaring at you before the elevator arrives, sulking, but as soon as the doors slide close and you’re on your way down, he drops his gaze and worries his bottom lip, just long enough to make a decision.

He covers your mouth with one hand as he pulls you down with the other. Standing on his toes, he presses a chaste kiss to the back of his hand.

Over your mouth.

You’re grinning the dumbest grin when he pulls away. He’s scowling and pink in the face, decidedly not looking you in the eye as he stalks towards the front door of your building.

“That didn’t happen,” he warns.

“Not yet at least,” you reply cheerfully.

You grin like a dork all the way back to your apartment. Natasha gives you a knowing look when you walk in and, after you relay what happened in the elevator, proceeds to give you shit for the rest of the night. You get her to admit that even she thinks the kiss was adorable though, so you tolerate her teasing.

It helps that you’re on cloud nine. Your good mood lasts clear through the next day and beyond, bolstered by periodic texts from Steve assuring you that he does feel better in between conversations about comics. The next time you have his class, you find he wasn’t lying. He still looks more tired than usual, but he’s lost his feverish flush and his sweater stays on the entire time he teaches. He even gives you shit as you follow him to his office afterwards.

“Brought you something,” you tell him once you actually reach his office. You slid your bag off your shoulder and onto the floor to dig through it.

“You shouldn’t have,” he replies wryly.

“Relax it’s just leftovers.”

“Trying to fatten me up, hm?”

You wink at him; “Someone’s gotta try. Be glad I don’t live at home right now, ‘cause if I did, my ma would be sending me in with an extra lunch and fresh cookies every day.” You offer him the tupperware of last night’s leftovers -- spaghetti, since everyone loves spaghetti -- and he looks a little bewildered as he takes it, but he does take it without complaints.

“Thanks,” he says, “You didn’t have to, you know.”

He sounds like he never expects people to do nice things for him. The thought makes your heart ache. You shrug and tell him, “I wanted to.”

There’s apparently a microwave hidden behind his desk that he ducks down to use, conveniently hiding how he flushes at your sincere words. Bringing him leftovers the day you have his class gets added to your routine and, slowly, it stops flustering. The first time he outright asks what you’ve brought him for lunch is also the only time as enthusiastically as he did the first time you fed him. He stops cold when you palm your hard on through your jeans (mostly to get it to stop pinching against your thigh. Mostly) and stifle a groan. He finishes eating looking a little guilty and you jerk off that night thinking about him thinking about you.

It’s not long after that that finals begin their approach. You have to scale back your time spent with Steve down to just exchanging tupperware after his classes.

And then _finally_ the semester is over. You head straight to Steve’s office the morning after grades are supposed to be submitted under the guise of picking up your tupperware. He stands as soon as he sees it’s you. Once you’ve closed the door behind you, he slides out from behind his desk and crowds you against the wall, fingers fisted in the front of your jacket. 

Steve yanks you down and kisses you. He nips at your bottom lip, sucks at your tongue, practically fucks your mouth, kissing you hard and dirty. It makes your knees go weak. You moan into his mouth when his cool fingers cup your jaw and he rolls his body against yours. He’s so much shorter than you; his hips press against your thigh, hard on obvious in his jeans. Your own dick presses against his stomach, just above his waistband.

You pull him in tighter against you, fingers in his belt loops, and he moans. The fingers of one hand slide down your neck, as if he doesn’t want to stop touching you, before he pulls it away. You hear the lock click behind you.

“Hey,” he says, lips pressed against your throat.

“Hey,” you parrot back. You press a kiss to his temple before you tease, “Oh Mister Rogers, I’m really worried I didn’t do well on the final. Is there _anything_ I could do to make it up?”

He sputters with laughter against your skin and nudges you playfully against the door, but he does play along, responding, “I could maybe think of a thing or two.”

You grin, the tip of your tongue dipping out to wet your lip. “Like what?”

Steve pulls away, taking three steps backwards to perch on the edge of his desk. He stands with his feet planted firmly on the floor, thighs forming a wide v.

“On your knees,” he tells you. Your jaw drops and you scramble to comply, dropping down just in front of him. He flushes like he didn’t expect you to actually do it. You couldn’t help but listen though. You have such a weakness for being bossed around and his narrow hips fit perfectly between your palms. Your eyes trace the bulge in his jeans before you drag your fingers over it in turn. Steve’s breath hitches. You glance up and find him staring down at you, dark pink and looking a little dumbfounded. You press your lips against the fly of his jeans and listen to him hiss, “Fuck.”

You slid your thumb along the length his dick, hard and hot behind the denim of his jeans. His breath hitches and his dick twitches under your touch. Your fingers tangle with his as you hurry to get his pants undone. He huffs a laugh at your combined fumbling.

“We’ve been waiting to damn long,” he says.

You breathe back, “Yeah.”

The two of you get his jeans open and you peel them down his thighs. He’s wearing snug briefs that leave exactly nothing to the imagination. Precome has already soaked through the dark blue fabric, gluing it to the head of his dick.

His fingers brush your cheek sweetly as you press a kiss to the head of his dick. Your lips come away sticky. You exagerate sucking his precome off your skin with a smirk before you lean back in to mouth him through his underwear. You can feel Steve’s thighs tense under your hands and you can’t help but grin against his dick. He groans.

“So, what do you think,” you ask, lips moving against him as you speak, “Am I gonna ace that final or what?”

“You’re a jerk,” he laughs.

You drag the flat of your tongue across the front of his underwear, firm and wet and more than a little sloppy. He half laughs, half gasps another curse, then you’re tugging his underwear down his thighs to join his pants. His dick juts out hard and thick, slick at the tip. You flick your tongue out to catch a bead of precome and Steve melts.

You wrap your fingers around the length of him, giving him a firm squeeze, and swallow down his head. The tip of your thumb gets caught between the v of his frenum and your bottom lip. You lick around it, stroking your thumb down his shaft. Steve sucks in a sharp breath, muscles in his stomach jumping in front of your nose. You slurp around him noisily and pop off to grin up at him. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, giving him your best “fuck me” face. Steve rolls his eyes at you, but he can’t hid the way his dick throbs in your grip.

You swallow him down again, pulling as much of him into your mouth as you can. You curl your tongue against the underside of his dick to press the tip of it against his frenum over and over. You can tell he likes that by the way he cups your face. His fingers twitch like he wants to pull you closer, like he wants to fuck your face.

You would not object.

Steve pulls your hair away from your face with one hand. The other is still on your face, thumb brushing where your top lip is stretched around him. You hum around him, swallowing with the tip of his dick just shy of touching the back of your throat before you pull away. Steve gasps at how your teeth catch at the flair of his head just so. You grin, the tip of his dick balanced against your bottom lip, and murmur, “How ‘bout now. Have I earned that A yet?” You punctuate your words with a tiny, teasing lick.

He groans -- a cross between laughing dismay and arousal -- and drags one hand down his face. You wrap your lips around him again, filling your mouth, and hum a question at him. He throbs against your tongue. You pop back off.

“I take that as a yes.”

“You’re such a shit,” he whines.

“Gotta make up for all the hard ons you gave me in class,” you tell him, making a point of grabbing your crotch to give your current one a squeeze.

“Seems like you’re rewarding me for that,” he says, grinning crookedly. You like the look of it with his face as flushed as it is, especially from your place on your knees in front of him. You lick your lips slowly, catching your bottom one between your teeth, watching him watch you.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like him,” you reply, voice low and slow, “Gotta say though, it made studying real… hard.”

Steve sputters with laughter, thin shoulders shaking.

“Okay, we gotta stop with the teacher-student pseudo roleplay. It’s making things really hard to take serious.”

You give his dick a squeeze and listen to the sharp breath he sucks in.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re having any trouble to me.”

“Well, your final may not deserve an A but your mouth sure does.” He pauses and then a look of horror dawns on his face, “That sounded like something out of a bad porn.”

You cackle, “It sure did.”

“This whole thing feels like something from a bad porn.”

“Pretty sure I’ve seen two or three with this same exact plot.”

Steve laugh-whispers, “Oh my god,” like what you’ve been doing and how it comes off is finally hitting him. You give him a slow stroke and kiss his hip.

“‘M not doing this for the grades, at least,” you tell him.

“That’s -- “ he pulls a face, “ -- reassuring. I already put grades in anyway.”

“Well, there you go.”

You climb to your feet so you can kiss him full on the mouth, cupping his face between your hands. He kisses you back eagerly, pulls you in by your belt loops so he can slip his tongue into your mouth. Your hard on presses against his stomach. He shifts to grind against you, putting more of his weight on his desk to better press against you. 

One of his thighs slide up between yours. You glance down and watch with fascination as his wet dick slides across the front of your jeans. The sight has your toes curling in your shoes, your dick giving a noticeable twitch. That makes Steve’s breath hitch in return, face buried in your neck.

“Making a mess of my pants, Stevie,” you whisper.

“Might as well; we’re already fuckin’ in my office.”

“Keep things up and _I’ll_ make a mess of my pants.”

He bites at your throat and follows up with the flat of his tongue, all the way up to your ear. You reach between your bodies to grasp at Steve’s dick, listening to the gasping moans he makes. With your hand back on him, he starts moving in earnest, fucking your hand, hips twisting to press against yours with each thrust.

He moves from gasping to whimpers, teeth clenched against the noises he wants to make. His fingers flex against your sides for a handful of thrusts before he covers your hand on him with one of his own.

Steve bites out a curse before he spills across your fingers. He curls into you as he comes, tense all over and almost silent. Then he relaxes, going loose and jelly limbed when he leans back on his elbows a moment later. He grins at you lazily, face flushed, fingers sticky, pants down around his knees. His sweater’s been pushed up too, the tails of his shirt open to either side of his bare stomach. He makes one damn good picture.

You fumble your pants open under his gaze. It takes you no time to finish, jerking off over him, especially not with the way he helps, licking his lips and grinding his thigh up against your balls.

The afterglow (of fucking your teacher) only lasts a couple of seconds as you realize one of your hands is full of spunk and you have no way to clean it off. Steve laughs when he notices the face you’re making at said hand and says, “Well, there’s a bathroom just down the hall.”

“That doesn’t help my sticky dick though.”

Steve laughs louder and pulls his jeans back up his thighs with his somehow still mostly clean hands. Then he winks.

“I could think of a way to fix that,” he purrs. You groan, covering your eyes with the back of one wrist while your dick tries in vain to rise with interest. Steve pops the fingers that covered your own as he came into his mouth and eyes you haughtily, giving an obscene suck.

“I can’t believe you,” you grumble.

“Promise, I’m real. And I think I have some napkins somewhere.”

Eventually, the two of you manage to get cleaned up and fully dressed. Before Steve opens the door, you duck down to peck him on the lips and ask, “So, dinner at my place?”

You have round two as dessert.


End file.
